A Home of our own
by Cananatra
Summary: Hobbits are not all they seem, and a certain Dark Lord should have been much more careful with his belongings.


The shire was unusually quiet this late summers evening. The normal background bustle which in regular times seemed to be the ground state of being in this idyllic little slice of middle earth had disappeared. Instead it was replaced by an almost painful stillness. Where one to possess the talents of a bird they would see from their lofty heights that all the small footpaths seemed unusually devoid of life. The one exception to this was the northern border of the shire, where a small crowd of Hobbits stood facing outward. Before them nine dark figures loomed out of the approaching darkness, foul blades clutched in desiccated hands.

The small crowd of forty-four Hobbits, and it was always forty-four which met an intruding threat, stood loosely. Some puffed from pipes, some snacked on pieces here and there of leftover meals and some just stood with an almost timeless patience. What not a single one bore, was a weapon. At the head of the congregation four younger Hobbits stood, each a leader of ten, each considered unusually outgoing for their type and each sporting old and faded waistcoats in unusual colours.

On the left stood Peregrin Took, one hand cradling a long pipe while the other was tucked into a small pocket on his green waistcoat. Silver wire picked out the stitching and stood starkly out from the deep green around it. Beside him stood his cousin and long-time partner in mischief Meriadoc Brandybuck. His stance was an almost comical copy of the Hobbit beside him, pipe included though his waistcoat differed significantly made as it was of deep blue cloth, stitching picked out in wire of bronze. Next was Frodo Baggins, perhaps the calmest of them all, both hands tucked comfortably into the pockets of his red waistcoat, gold thread glinting softly in the dying light. Lastly Samwise Gamgee stood uncomfortable in a black waistcoat held together by bright yellow thread. His hands constantly fluttering down to tug at the hem in an attempt to get it to sit more comfortably on him.

The four Hobbits had recently strolled back from the very edge of Hobbit land, upon which the Ringwraiths seemed unusually cautious of stepping and were now talking quietly amongst themselves.

"Well Pippin?" Frodo got the ball rolling. In general he was considered the guiding force where direction of the four was concerned. In important situations anyway. "You had time to talk to our guests. They want something, seems badly. How'd the negotiations fare?"

"Well," the younger Hobbit, freshly put on the spot began. "They're after a magic ring we're supposed to have, probably the one Bilbo harps on about in his stories. Seems right important to them it does." His pipe free hand rising to run over the outline of something hanging from his neck. "The thing is, I get the feeling they're not hagglin' in good faith. Once we reached the stage of scone regulation between ourselves and Mordor they were agreeing to anything we asked for. Feels like they intend to get the ring and then stab us in the back later."

"Such is the impression I've gotten from the books," Merry interjected. "From tales passed on from the big races these wraiths seem not to hold to a bargain once struck. Various descriptors aside they seem to be just vile in all aspects." A glint of silver briefly visible on his forehead behind his hair as he shook his head.

Turning in such a way to face Frodo while still keeping an eye on the Ringwraiths Sam gave his opinion, his hand moving down to still the swinging of a goblet hanging from his belt. "That there ring is a problem into itself. We knew that the day Bilbo stepped foot back in the shire, we all felt it. The old ways didn't like it one bit." Nods of agreement bobbed back and forth from all in the small group.

"It's decided then," Frodo spoke before raising his voice and calling to the group behind him. "Bilbo, could you come over here a moment?" The Adventuring Hobbit looked somewhat surprised to be called on but quickly strolled over. "These Ringwraiths are here for your ring. You've kept it all these years but it's time to hand it over." He held out his hand. Bilbo's face took on an expression seldom seen on Hobbits, it was covetous but at the same time warring with his own intent. Seeing this struggle Frodo pressed on. "The shire needs this of you Bilbo. It's for the Home." These words seemed to crystallise Bilbo's expression into one of determination and in a single move he pulled the ring from his pocket and dropped it into Frodo's hand. Letting out a scoff at his own momentary weakness he strolled back to his place in the crowd.

The exchange had not gone unnoticed though and the Ringwraiths stared agitatedly at the Hobbits, their gaze locked on Frodo's right hand. Despite standing still they exuded a feeling of restrained motion as if running towards the ring while at the same time being held back from it. With their goal so close, and the Hobbits seeming likely to foolishly just had it over they dared not risk an aggressive move.

Walking forward Frodo loosely flicked the ring between his fingers as if to show the distinct lack of value Hobbits placed in such things. It was theatrics, but such times are made for theatrics and if you don't choose your own some storyteller will and it will be remember that way. At the halfway point Frodo came to a small stone distance marker standing upright by the side of the path. The other three had stopped a few steps back. Delicately he balanced the ring on the top of the stone.

Clearly, the Ringwraiths thinking went, the little Hobbit was too scared to hand it to them directly. Once he backed away from it they could move forward and gather it up safely before returning it to their master. Such thoughts showcased their lack of understanding of Hobbits. For while Hobbits are generally polite their secrets are kept to themselves, as they keep to themselves in general. Had this not been so, the ringwraiths would not have been so self-assured.

Straightening from placing the ring, Frodo stretched casually to his full height. His arms lifted above his head as if to work that one muscle in the upper back and he rose up on his toes. In an instant, an instant which seemed horrifically long and yet not nearly long enough to the Ringwraiths, a gleaming silver sword appeared in the Hobbits hands. For a man such a blade would have been functional, for a hobbit it was a massive two hander. The blade fell to the rising cries of horror from the wraiths and when it smote the ring the very gold itself screamed. Mighty the ring might be, the protections on it vast, but before this blade it may as well have been made of clay.

A single pulse of energy signalled the final destruction of the ring. In far off Mordor beyond the sight of any of the Hobbits in the Shire the Dark Lord Sauron cried out in pain. His one trump card, his power enchanted soul anchor had been destroyed and now death came to claim him. His end only witnessed by the foulest beasts he had surrounded himself with, and none would live to describe it.

In the Shire the two halves of the One Ring fell off the travel marker, which itself bore quite the gouge. The nine Ringwraiths screamed in unholy pain. As their Master died, the magics he had imbued in their own enslaved rings faltered. No longer were they bound to the mortal realm and the bodies they had constructed for themselves rapidly began to disintegrate. Of the nine only one possessed the willpower to think through the pain of a long delayed death. The Witch King of Angmar held only hatred within him and was determined to at least take these Hobbits with him. With wisps of his very essence leaving him with every step he changed towards his killers. As soon as his black steel boot landed on the soil of the Shire the expression on every watching Hobbit's face hardened. As one their right arms rose, palms facing the charging nightmare. As his second boot landed a great force slammed into the wraith and blasted it back the way it came. Such was the force on his already weakening body that the Witch King simply disintegrated into a dark cloud which slowly cleared. In the distance, some one hundred and twenty feet further down the path, the twisted remains of his helm could be seen embedded in a tree trunk, sixteen feet off the ground.

With the last of the Ringwraiths evaporated and the threat seemingly passed the Hobbits turned about. Respectful nods passed to one another before they all headed home to bed. It was late after all and Hobbits needed their sleep.

888

Three days later a rather windblown and decidedly unsettled grey wizard thundered into the Shire. His passage marked with disapproving shakes of the head by the majority of the populace. What was the rush after all? There wasn't any emergency.

Gandalf obviously felt otherwise though as he leapt from his large white horse the moment he reached his destination and charged up the small garden path before entering the house. In the sitting room Frodo was in one part surprised at the frantic entrance while at the same time amused at seeing the normally composed Wizard so flustered. The Wizard burst into the room and loomed over the seated Hobbit who was enjoying a cup of tea. It was Second Breakfast after all.

"What did you do to the ring?" Gandalf shouted, desperately trying to get a hold of the situation.

"Destroyed it," Frodo replied with ease while taking another sip from his cup. "Tea?"

"Impossible!" Gandalfs voice boomed within the small room, his powers gathering around him as shadows rose on the walls. "The One Ring cannot - "

"Sit Down," the young Hobbits words echoed with some strange power as he interrupted the Wizard and for the first time Gandalf felt very small in the Shire. "and have a scone." The Hobbit finished as Gandalf's legs folded almost of their own accord. For a few minutes Frodo studied Gandalf who contented himself with the offered scone. Eventually he seemed to come to a decision.

"You've been a friend to the Shire for a long time Gandalf the Grey, and so I will tell you some part of our story. Do not ask for more, you will not get it, and do not speak of it to others. We Hobbits have old lore, stories from long past which were never written down, just passed from generation to generation, " here he paused to order his thoughts. "In the time before time we served. Who we served is lost to us, all save one. As the Time before Time came to an end the Great Potter came to us. We knew of him of old, had served him upon a time. He looked upon us as Lord of the End and decided our service should be rewarded. As we had served in others homes in the Time before Time we would now have our own homes, bound to this land. The Great Potter did much for us, but we remain much as we were, bound to our home, bound to our land. To leave is unusual, but here we have old ways, old powers from the Time before Time we can call on in defence of the home. It was our Duty and even now our Duty endures."

"The One Ring was not the first such magic to exist. We know the Great Potter fought a Dark Lord in the Time before Time. That Dark Lord made many items like the One Ring and hid them far and wide so as to hide from the End. When the One Ring came to the Shire we felt it, the same dirty magic from all that time ago. When the wraiths arrived we knew the time had come. We could no longer ignore it for it threatened the home and our Duty drove us to act. The Great Potter was clever though and he knew one day we might encounter such foul magic again so he left to us Griff's sword. We know little of its origin, no idea who Griff was. Perhaps he was a friend of the Great Potter. We do know it was used to destroy the Dark Lord's magics in the Time before Time and so I used it three days past." Here Frodo paused again to take a sip of tea and enjoy the look of shock etched onto the normally unflappable wizards face.

"I think you need some tea," he finished softly.

A/N: OK, so a very short story whose idea kicked me awake a couple of hours ago and insisted on being written. I decided to share it here. As you may have all guessed Hobbits are descended from House Elves. Harry in his guise as Master of Death decided to spare their species at the end of the last universe and pop them in this one with reward for their service. No idea if this has even been thought of before but hey, was fun to write.


End file.
